"You could have told me."
Yvette paused with one glove halfway on, the leather folded awkwardly at the fingers. She shifted the receiver higher against her ear, listening to the faint hum beneath the line. The room was quiet except for the radiator ticking softly, working itself awake.
"I was going to," she said. "I just didn't think it needed to be… a thing."
Kavish let out a slow breath. "You're standing in a different city and you didn't think that counted as a thing?"
She tugged the glove on properly and reached for the other. "It's not like I moved across the world."
"You moved far enough."
"I took a train," she said. "Not a ship."
"That's not comforting."
She smiled faintly and crossed the room, careful not to trip over the edge of the rug that refused to lie flat.
It was 1956, early July. Outside the window, the street was already full—voices overlapping, carts rattling past, a man arguing with someone she couldn't see.
"So," Kavish continued, "how long have you been there?"
"Two days."
A pause. "Two days!?"
"Yes."
"And you're calling now"
"I unpacked first."
"You unpacked before calling your brother."
"I needed to know where things went," she replied mildly. "It helps me think."
"That explains a lot, actually."
She leaned against the windowsill, cool stone pressing through her coat. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not," he said. "You do this every time. You disappear into logistics and forget the rest of us exist."
"That's unfair."
"It's...accurate."
She didn't argue. Instead, she watched a woman hurry past below, scarf trailing behind her, one glove missing. Tallinn moved quickly, people stepping around one another without apology.
"They transferred me," Yvette said again, slower this time. "That's all."
Kavish hummed thoughtfully. "From Delravik."
"Yes."
"You liked Delravik."
"I didn't dislike it."
"That's not the same."
She shrugged. "It was… manageable."
He laughed quietly. "You make everything sound like an object you're tolerating."
"It was a good place to work."
"You mean quiet."
"Yes."
"And predictable."
"That too."
Silence settled between them—not strained, just familiar. She could picture him clearly: sitting at the small table in the kitchen back home, one chair leg always uneven, a mug cooling beside his hand.
"Did they say why?" he asked.
"They needed someone," she replied.
"Short-handed."
"That's vague."
"That's how they said it."
"And you didn't question it."
"There wasn't much to question."
He was quiet for a moment. "You never used to be like that."
She frowned slightly. "Like what?"
"So willing to accept answers that don't explain anything."
She shifted her weight, the stone cool through her coat. "I'm not unwilling. I just don't push when it's unnecessary."
"That's what worries me."
She smiled despite herself. "You worry too much."
"Someone has to."
"Someone always does."
They drifted then, as they often did, into smaller things. A neighbor back home who'd taken to feeding stray cats. A roof that still leaked despite repeated repairs. Kavish complained about the bread prices again, and she teased him for refusing to try a different baker.
"You should write," he said eventually.
"I will."
"You say that."
"I mean it."
"You said that last time."
"I really do this time."
A beat. "You always mean it."
The call ended shortly after. Yvette replaced the receiver carefully, aligning it before stepping back. She stood there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the room settle again.
———————
The precinct was louder than Delravik's, fuller in every sense. Voices echoed against high ceilings. Paper slid across desks. Someone laughed sharply near the far wall.
She paused just inside, adjusting her coat.
"New face."
The man who spoke leaned against a desk nearby, cigarette unlit between his fingers. He looked curious, not unkind.
"Yes," she said. "Ordene."
"Petrov," he replied. "You're early."
"I don't like being late."
"That'll change," he said, grinning.
Another man approached—older, with greying hair and an expression shaped by years of repetition.
"Petrov," he said, then turned to her. "Volkov. Sergeant."
He glanced at a paper in his hand.
"Transferred from Delravik."
"Yes, sir"
He nodded once. "it's a quiet place.. from what Ive heard"
"It has its moments."
"That's what everyone says." He gestured toward a desk near the window. "That one's free. For now."
She thanked him and moved toward it, setting her bag down neatly. The desk was worn smooth, its drawer sticking slightly. She adjusted it until it closed properly.
Petrov wandered over. "So," he said, lowering his voice, "what did you do?"
She looked up. "Do?"
"People don't usually end up here without a reason."
"They needed someone."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough."
The morning passed in fragments—introductions, forms, names she tried to remember. It felt less like arrival and more like continuation.
During her break, she stepped outside. The street was crowded now, voices overlapping in sharp bursts. A man nearby argued loudly about poetry, gesturing as though the words themselves might escape him.
She bought bread from a woman with flour-dusted hands and ate it slowly while walking. The crust was warm. The center soft.
By the river, she stopped.
The water moved steadily, dark but calm. She leaned against the railing, letting her thoughts settle without direction. Transfers happened. Work shifted. Life adjusted.
She reached into her pocket for her gloves and felt paper instead.
She unfolded it.
Administrative Records. Tomorrow. 8:00.
No signature.
She read it twice, then folded it neatly and slipped it back into her pocket. It seemed ordinary enough. Large places had departments Delravik never needed.
Behind her, someone laughed. A cart rattled past.
Yvette turned back toward the precinct, finishing her bread as she walked.
Tomorrow, she would report where instructed.
For now, she had work to do.